I was in disgrace; I knew it. I shouldn’t have cared, but something about Milady made me feel like a small child again. Perhaps her resemblance to Mother. Her maidservant escorted me back to my room; in case I got any ideas about wandering off again, I supposed. I noticed that Milady’s servants didn’t walk, but ratherscurried—heads down. Closer to the walls than they needed to be.
The air in my room was warm and stifling. I went to open the window, but the maidservant inserted herself between me and the glass.
“I just want some fresh air,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Miss. Milady said your windows were to stay closed.”
Through the wavering glass, I could see Baldbeak’s silhouette in a tree opposite the window. I hoped he had found something to eat.
“Just for a moment,” I said. “I really do just want some air.”
“I’m sorry, Miss,” she said, standing her ground. Another pair of maids entered carrying a large tub, and a third with a ewer. I gave up and submitted myself to be washed.
When I had changed, I presented myself to Milady’s chamber—accompanied by the maidservant, of course. Outwardly, I was calm. Inwardly, I was fuming. The Hair frizzed out irritably, as if expressing the frustration I could not. I was beginning to suspect that climbing into Milady’s carriage had been an enormous mistake—but I needed her to help me find Mother and her book. I told myself that I was not imprisoned—if she did not keep her promise to aid me, I could somehow get away and head to Spire.
Milady opened the door, smiling. I forced my mouth into an answering smile. Behind her, I could see that a lectern had been drawn from edge of the room into the center. It looked like it might be made of porcelain, painted with pink and gold roses. On top of the lectern was a large spellbook, open to a central page.
“What is this for?” I asked, stopping dead.
She looked me over again in silence, her face unreadable.
“Well,” she said. “Let’s put this morning’s unpleasantness behind us, shall we? Did you bring the gloves I gave you?”
Reluctantly, I nodded.
“It is a myth, you know, that one should wear gloves when handling valuable books.”
“I know. Mother told me.”
“All the same—mine are a little different, and I prefer you wear them when you read for me.”
I resisted the urge to snap back. I pulled out the pair ofpink gloves she had given me and wiggled them on, finger by finger, making a face at the itchy fabric. There was that same sensation of tightness and restriction, but they did not seem to stick as the others had. Perhaps that had been some kind of ward, set for anyone foolish enough to go rummaging through her drawers.
“It is time for us to see exactly what your mother taught you, I think,” said Milady. “You may look at the book.”
Despite my trepidation at what might be coming next, I was eager to look at the book—to weigh it, smell it, feel the pages between my fingers, examine the calligraphy and the intricacies of the illuminations. Call it professional curiosity. I had spent so many years working on them, after all.
“It’s beautiful,” I said almost involuntarily.
“Isn’t it?” Milady had turned and now faced me, her hands clasped before her. “Place your hands on it, please. Palms flat. One on each side.”
“Why?”
“There is nothing to fear, my dear, I promise.” She cocked her head. “If you wish me to help you find my sister, I need your full cooperation.”
“I would have thought you’d want to find her for your own sake,” I said without thinking. She turned her bright blue gaze on me.
“Of course,” she said after a beat. “Now. Hands on the book.”
I obeyed, letting my hands rest on the paper. For some reason, this simple action made my heart race, as if the book were about to grow teeth and snap at my fingers. Why did this posture unnerve me so? It felt both familiar and dangerous, but as far as I knew, I had never done anything quite like this before. And the paper beneath my skin was only paper, after all—there was no need to fear that it might become warm and viscous, absorbing me into itself with the slow, inexorable suction of quicksand.
My fingers trembled. I told myself not to be silly, nor toinvite any further reprimands, and willed myself to stay frozen. Milady herself stood very still beside me, only the rise and fall of her bodice giving away the fact that she was human and not a statue so beautiful that the sculptor would have abandoned their tools upon finishing it.
We watched each other for a tense moment—what was she hoping would happen?—and then the whole room seemed to take a breath, and the fire seemed to start flickering again, and I lowered my hands.
“I can’t read,” I said. “I’ve never been able to learn.”
“Well,” said Milady, and sat. There was no trace of disappointment or anger in her face, but I felt the dropping of her bright blue gaze as viscerally as if she had slapped me.
